Less Than Perfect
by Rac4hel414
Summary: Only he could save her life. Only he could see her perfection. Based off P!nk's 'Less Than Perfect' music video. Rated M for suicide and language.


**A/N: This didn't take half the time I thought it would considering I've had three exams to study for and a 1500 essay due :\ Anyway, I want you to just accept this story for what it is. Try not to criticise me if I got a few facts wrong. I don't know much about anorexia (other than what I've read online). I know that the ending might seem kinda sudden and fast moving in comparison to the beginning but after a week of studying, reciting philosophical quotes ("I prefer the definition of God being eternal as his being everlasting than his being timeless" - Richard Swinburne) and I was just pleased with myself that I had accomplished this.**

**This story was greatly inspired by P!nk's music video for 'Fucking Perfect'. This story is quite personal to me. I mean, I'm not anorexic and I don't suffer from depression. However, I have always felt that others are perfect in every sense and I'm not. And this is dedicated to anybody who's ever felt that way.**

**Oh, btw, has made a banner type thing for this story (thank you!) and the link is in my profile :D**

**Rated M for attempted suicide and language.**

**Enjoy :D**

* * *

Less Than Perfect

They didn't understand. How could they? They just pranced around in their size five vintage dresses and they had every guy at East High drooling over them. How could they ever comprehend how it feels to never have experienced that? They never got told that they were 'too curvy' or that they 'could lose some weight'. Because they were perfect. And I wasn't. I never had been. And I never will be.

I watched with disgust as they crowded around Troy Bolton. He was perfect, too. With his perfect status of basketball captain, perfect dirty blonde hair, perfect blue eyes and perfect muscular body. He smiled at me but I rolled my eyes and turned back to my locker. Anything to take my eyes away from the sickening scene. They were everywhere. And never gave people who were imperfect a second thought. They lived with other perfect people in their own perfect world.

Tugging my hood over my head, I hugged my books to my chest and began making my way to my first lesson; social studies. It served no other purpose than to provide me with a few extra points to get me into university. If I went. No one knew that I was considering not going. Not even my dad. Especially not my dad. He still thought I was taking my anti depressants. But I wasn't.

Sitting down at my usual seat in the back, I flipped open my sketch pad and continued my drawing of a half skull, half heart. It would repulse the Perfects. They'd probably vomit at the sight of it. But that's because they had no care for anything other than the clothes they wore and how their hair looked. They didn't care that some people were hurting. Or that, ultimately, whether you're perfect or not, you die. And, sometimes, the want for perfection can be the cause.

So many people argued that imperfection was the way forward. Lady Gaga, for instance. She's such an inspiration and, unbeknown to anybody at all, my biggest hero. But it didn't change anything. Imperfection was exactly that. And if you weren't perfect, you weren't good enough when you live in a society which thrives off of beauty.

The bell rang and Mr McKesson walked into the classroom with his briefcase and cup of coffee. "Alright, alright," he exclaimed, setting his things on the desk. "Settle down."

I reluctantly shut my sketch pad and opened my notebook instead. I kept my head locked on my notebook as people sat down at their desks. I lifted my eyes, glancing around as the loud uproar of conversations slowly became a quiet murmur.

"Thank you," Mr McKesson mumbled. "Took you long enough. Anyway, does anyone know what's special about this week?"

Jason Cross, not exactly the brightest bulb in the lamp, raised his hand.

Mr McKesson sighed but gestured for Jason to speak. "Sure. Go ahead, Jason."

Jason glanced at his basketball buddies. "Because it's the start of basketball season."

Mr McKesson's face held the expression of wanting to bang his head against a brick wall. I couldn't blame him. He knew that every single person in the room detested the lesson (which is why the register says twenty eight students are in our class, but eighteen is the record attendance), and Jason, bless him, was the only one to voluntarily try to answer.

"No, Jason," he said slowly. "This is week is mental health week. It raises awareness about the severity of mental health issues. You will write an essay on an assigned mental illness and will orally report back in two weeks. You will be with..."

Then Mr McKesson said the two words I dreaded most: "A partner."

I slouched further in my seat. Great. A time when I was forced to be in someone else's company and actually _talk_. Knowing my luck, I'd be stuck with some jock who would spend an hour teasing me about how I don't talk, don't wear makeup and my wardrobe consists of baggy, mostly black, clothes. Then, the jock would inevitably make me write the report and he would read it out to the class.

Trust me. I've done it all before.

"Shelby Aarons, Tom Bentham." Mr McKesson glanced up from the list of pairs. "Troy Bolton, Gabriella Montez."

Fucking great.

I've never spoken to Troy and I didn't want to, either. He was probably the worst jock of all.

I glanced up from underneath my hood to find Troy twisted in his seat from the front row. When he finally put my name to my face he sent me another smile, just like he'd done in the hallway. Smiles meant nothing at all. Smiles were makeup. It was part of an act. Whether you wanted people to think you were a nice person, or if you wanted to make people believe that your life was a lot better than it actually was, smiles are just part of an act.

I lowered my eyes to my desk. Troy was probably _acting_ nice. He would pretend to get close to me, and pretend to sympathise with how I had no friends. Then he'd leave. Like everybody did. If given the chance, everybody leaves you.

"Move to where your partner is and you can use this lesson to work out your plan and schedule for the report. I will come around and assign which mental illness you will be studying," Mr McKesson said to us.

There was a clatter as students began reluctantly moving. I looked up to find Troy staring at me. When I made no movement, he picked up his bag and moved to the desk to the side of me which was now vacant.

There was an awkward silence between me and Troy as Mr McKesson began going around each pair with their topic. I could feel Troy staring at me and I self consciously tugged the sleeves of my black hoody further over my hands. When people stared at me, I felt exposed, like they already knew everything about me. When the truth is, nobody knew. Not even my dad. Because the truth hurts. And the longer my dad doesn't know, the longer he doesn't suffer.

Troy coughed and held his hand out. "Troy."

I stared at his hand and then looked back at my desk. "I know who you are," I muttered. "Basketball captain, first sophomore ever to make the varsity team, your dad's the coach and your best friend is one Chad Danforth." I pointed at an African-American guy with an afro who was currently in a heated debate with his partner, Taylor McKessie. I turned to Troy, quirking an eyebrow.

He chuckled and dropped his hand to his lap. "Should've seen that one coming."

"You're not exactly anonymous," I whispered.

"Like you?" He successfully guessed the part of the sentence I hadn't spoken.

I nodded reluctantly. "Like me," I muttered. Sighing, I pulled my hood down but I refused to look at him. "I'm Gabriella."

"Do you have a nickname people call you? Gabi, maybe?" Troy asked.

I shook my head. "No. Just...Gabriella."

"Alright, Gabriella. Well, when do you have free periods?" he asked.

I frowned and lifted my head to look at him. "Why?"

Troy shrugged. "We've got a project due. We've got to do it together, you and me."

"Other people pay me to do their half and then they read the whole report because they know I'm not comfortable talking," I explained quietly.

He laughed. It was a nice sound. Nicer than the silence at home when my dad was still in his class at U of A. I used to think that silence was the best sound in the world. There were no insults or criticisms. It was just me. But, this sound was better. It was like music. Ever since I was a little kid, all I'd ever heard was harsh, fake laughs, assisting smiles in their acts. But Troy seemed sincere.

After a moment, Troy calmed down and shook his head to himself. "You don't get it, do you? I'm not other people. I want this grade to be as rightfully mine as it is yours."

I turned away. "You're the first person to talk to me. Really talk to me. Since I started here."

Troy shrugged. "Do you mind? I mean, we can stick to mental illness if you'd like."

I sighed. "I don't talk. It's easier that way."

Luck seemed to be on my side because Mr McKesson approached us before Troy could question what I'd said. "Ah, Mr Bolton. I hope you will keep up with Miss Montez's standard."

Troy glanced at me before turning to our teacher. "I'm certainly up for the challenge."

"Good," Mr McKesson murmured. "You will both study anorexia nervosa." He turned away, heading back towards his desk.

Troy turned to me. "I'm free next period. What about you?"

I sighed and nodded. "Me too."

"Library?"

A thought struck me. "Sure. But I have something better at home."

* * *

It was for the project. That's what I was telling myself, at least. The project was the reason for Troy Bolton to be in the living room of my home. My dad wasn't there. I didn't expect him to be. His class finished later today and then he had a late shift down at a local diner (he needed money for tuition, alongside bills, somehow). The East high library was less than inspiring in the psychology department. So, this was the next best thing.

"Sorry about the mess," I muttered as I dropped six large psychology textbooks on the coffee table. "My dad isn't here much and I never quite have the motivation to clean up." I sat next to him on the couch.

Troy chuckled. "It's okay."

I paused. "Go on, ask me."

"Ask what?" He actually looked confused.

I looked down at my hands. "Aren't you wondering where my mom is?"

Troy sighed. "I guess I'm curious but it's none of my business. If you want to tell me, go right ahead."

I didn't reply but reached forward for a textbook. "I didn't think there was an upside for having a psychology major as a dad."

"Is that where he is? School?" he asked as he reached for a textbook, too.

I nodded. "Yeah." I flipped to the contents page of the textbook. We were silent for a while. We were both perusing the textbooks religiously, trying to find information on anorexia. It was surprisingly easy. It was the biggest chapter in the book I was currently reading.

"Hey, this is interesting," Troy exclaimed. "Forty to sixty percent of high school girls have dieted." He slouched back into the couch in shock. "If that's accurate, and there are, estimated, fifteen hundred girls at East High, about six hundred girls have dieted. Can you believe that?"

I frowned. How had he worked that out so fast? Even I needed all of two seconds to work things like that out. "How did..."

Troy chuckled to himself. "I'm good with math. My head works in numbers. How do you think I can make every basket? It's basic geometry. Don't tell the guys. They think I'm flunking math."

"Your secret's safe," I whispered, turning back to my book.

"But don't you find that sad? The statistics, I mean," he murmured.

I shrugged. "You sound surprised by those numbers. It's the girls who flirt with you all the time. You know, the cheerleaders and the girls in the small dresses."

Troy ran a hand through his hair. "But, even so. Why don't they appreciate themselves?"

"The natural instinct to want to be perfect, I guess." I set the open textbook on the coffee table. "Would you like a drink?"

"Sure. Whatever you're having is fine," he murmured, turning back to his textbook.

I walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. I rubbed my eyes. What was happening? Why had I let him into my house? I should've just suggested we go to the public library. That would be better than having Troy Bolton _in my house_. When people were in your house, your secrets were exposed to them. I pushed the sleeve of my hoody up, exposing my left arm. The scars taunted me, adding to my imperfections.

Tugging my sleeve back down, I pulled the fridge open. Once two glasses of orange juice were poured, I went back into the living room. "I hope this is okay," I murmured, handing a glass to him. "We're in need of some groceries."

"Do you want me to drive you to the store?" Troy offered.

Why would he do that? Why would someone offer me that? Or even _act_ to offer someone that? He doesn't know me. He's a Perfect. They don't give people like me the time of day, much less offer to drive me to the grocery store. He _must_ be acting.

I sighed and shook my head. "No thank you. My dad doesn't get paid until tomorrow, anyway. Besides, we have enough. It's fine. Thanks for the offer, I guess."

He didn't turn back to the textbook like I expected. He simply looked at me. I guess I couldn't exactly classify it as 'staring', just...looking. What he was seeing, though, was a mystery to me.

"What?" I muttered, staring at my lap.

He smiled and reached across to hold my hand. "Stop being nervous."

"I'm not nervous," I whispered.

"Then what's wrong?" he asked.

I slipped my hand out of his and focussed on my hands. "Nothing. Have you found anything else out about anorexia?"

He sighed, seeming to understand that the topic was off limits. He turned back to the book in his lap. "I found it quite interesting that anorexia mostly stems from underlying issues such as depression, anxiety or paranoia. Did you know that?" He lifted his head, looking straight at me.

I shrugged. "Dad...Psychology major. When he has an exam coming up, he finds it beneficial to recite everything to me."

Troy laughed. "So, do you want to do psychology?"

I pulled a face. "No! Definitely not. I could get a psychology degree as I am now because of what my dad's told me. I uh," I paused, nervously curling some hair behind my ear. "I actually want to go to art school."

Troy frowned. "Really? But, you don't take art. I thought you'd do math or English or something."

I shook my head. "No. I want to do art. Not that I know that any of my pieces are good. I don't show them to anybody."

"No one's seen it? Your dad?" he asked quietly.

I gave him a sad smile. "No. Not even my dad. Things are complicated and the simpler I can keep it, the better." I pulled a book towards me. "Where were we?"

I pretended to be engrossed in the textbook but none of the words were really sinking in. I was too busy being conscious of how close Troy and I were. This was all alien to me. I'd never been paired up with someone who actually cared about their grades. I glanced up at Troy who was consulting the index of the book and then he flipped hurriedly to the desired page. I can't say from experience, but I was willing to bet that Troy Bolton looked pretty comfortable on a basketball court. But something simply made sense about seeing Troy surrounded by textbooks. I'd always assumed that jocks would look out of place and silly being with books. But not this jock.

Still. He was a Perfect. It made perfect sense that Troy Bolton, who was the centre of East High's Perfects, would appear even more perfect to me. And yet, he was surrounded by cheerleaders and jocks who, frankly, didn't give a shit about their grades or if Troy actually wanted and worked hard for his good grades. No wonder he asked me not to tell anybody that he was good at math.

"You're staring," he mumbled, his eyes still glued to the page.

I flinched out of my thoughts. "What? How did you know?"

He sighed and placed the open book on the coffee table. "I'm basketball captain. And as awesome as that is, I get stared at. A lot. I know when someone's staring at me. I just don't understand why _you're_ staring at me."

I reached for my drink and took a sip, stalling my answer. "I don't know," I admitted. "Is it wrong of me to admit I judged you?"

He shrugged. "Everyone judges others. It's human nature. You can't help it."

I wasn't convinced. Since the moment we'd been paired together, Troy didn't seem to be judging me and, let's face it, I practically had 'emo' tattooed on my forehead. I looked across at him. "You're not judging me."

"I get where you're coming from. But, like you said: people judge me, expect me to be some player, a bully and, ultimately, a flunk-out who ends up serving hot wings down at Hooters," he explained calmly.

"And people still hang around you, despite their judgements?" I exclaimed. "That makes no sense."

He shrugged. "Hormonal teenage logic. You get used to it."

I sighed. "That doesn't answer my question. Why aren't you judging me?"

"I know how it feels. It's not nice when people simply _expect_ you to be something for one reason or another. I know that you prefer to be alone but you're really not. I know it feels. I know I'm surrounded by people but do you think I can talk to them like I'm talking to you?" he exclaimed. He ran a hand through his hair. "I know it seems like Chad's my best friend, and in some way he is, but I can't _talk_ to him. You know?"

I nodded slowly. "I guess I do. People are so caught up in appearances that they don't care what's underneath."

"I care," he whispered.

I looked down at my book. "Anyway..."

* * *

"...and there are studies to try and prove that anorexia actually has a complication of Chilblains. What are they?" Troy muttered as he picked up another textbook, frantically looking through that one.

"It's like frostbite," I muttered from my place in the other armchair. I was sat sideways, my legs hanging over the arm of it. I'd moved after becoming uncomfortable being in such close proximity of Troy. The further he was away, the better. I glanced up at him. "A+ in bio." I turned back to the book I was looking through.

"I'm sure my class didn't study Chilblains," he exclaimed. He seemed to find the topic unimportant for a moment later, he turned back to the book. "Did you know that a symptom of anorexia is something known as Russell's sign?"

I scratched my forehead. "I don't remember reading about that or ever hearing it from my dad. What is it?"

"It's scars on the back of the hand. It's a sign of induced vomiting." He paused and in that moment, I glanced down at the backs of my hands.

Pulling my sleeves over my hands, I shrugged. "Well, it can't be that easy to spot. Lots of people have scars on the back of their hands."

"I suppose," he muttered.

There was a click, signalling that the front door was being opened. "Brie," my dad, Greg, called from the hallway.

"Living room," I replied, looking intensely at my book.

Greg walked in and I looked up at him. With the same brown eyes, dark hair and tanned skin, it was amazing that anybody other than Greg had taken part in making me. But, of course, my mother had.

He glanced at Troy and then at me. "Brie, who's this?" You'd think that the father of a teenage daughter would scrutinise and interrogate a boy. Not my dad. He was probably relieved I was talking to someone other than him.

"Dad, this is Troy Bolton. Troy, my dad," I whispered. I refused to look at them directly but I saw out of the corner of my eyes that Troy stood up and shook Greg's hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Sir," Troy exclaimed.

"Same here. No offence but why are you here?" Greg asked.

"Social studies project. We've got to study a mental illness," Troy explained.

"Ah," Greg spoke with realisation. "That explains the textbooks."

"I hope it's okay that we use them," he murmured tentatively.

Greg chuckled. "Of course it's fine. I won't trouble you anymore." He turned to me. "Brie?"

I twisted my head to him. "What?"

"I don't suppose Maria's called?" he asked. Bless him. He still loved her. And I couldn't blame him. Maria was, in theory, perfect. Go figure. The problem was that imperfections were, apparently, hereditary in the Montez family and imperfections weren't acceptable to Maria.

I quirked an eyebrow. "I'll give you one chance to guess."

Greg nodded slowly. "Oh well. I have my favourite girl right here." He strolled over and bent over to kiss my forehead. "Love you."

I smiled up at him. "Love you, too." I watched him leave the room to go upstairs before I turned to look at Troy. "What?"

He sat back down on the couch. "Your dad seems nice. Who's Maria?"

I swung my legs over so that I was sitting upright. I closed my textbook and set it on the coffee table. What was wrong with telling him? It's not like anybody at school would care if he told people, anyway. Besides, unless he was a _really_ good actor, he didn't seem to be deceiving and a liar. He was just curious. And he had every right to be considering I don't talk about anything other than school. Nobody knew anything about me. Telling one person one thing wouldn't be the end, right?

"My mom," I whispered, looking at the carpet. "She and my dad divorced when I was thirteen."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Troy murmured. "I didn't know..."

I smiled ruefully to myself. "I don't suppose you would." I lifted my head to look at him. "I think you should go now."

Troy nodded. "Of course." He began packing books away into his bags. He paused when he picked up Greg's book that he'd been reading.

"You can borrow it, you know. He won't mind," I muttered.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

I nodded. "I'm sure."

I watched him as he packed Greg's book into his bag, too. He looked over at me with a smile. "You know, I get that there are things you don't want to talk about and that's fine. I'm not going to force you. But, if it's any consolation, you're really easy to talk to. I mean that."

I shrugged. "You're welcome, I guess."

"Anyway, you want me gone. So, I'll see you tomorrow." Troy stood up and I followed him to the door. "Do you want to meet up second period? You're free, then, right?"

I nodded, pulling the door open. "Yeah. I am."

"Great. Well, I'll see you in the library then." He gave me a smile then. But it seemed different, somehow, from all the others he'd given me that day. It was gentler. In that moment, I knew I was looking at simply Troy; not Troy Bolton, basketball captain.

He turned to leave but I stopped him. "Troy, can you not talk to me? In school I mean. Apart from the project."

He nodded. "Sure. If that's what you want."

I shut the door and took a deep breath before I headed for the stairs. Before I could get on the first one, Greg called, "Time for your tablets."

I sighed as I made my way to my room. "I know."

I walked into my room and went straight over to my adjoining bathroom. Locking the door, I stood at the basin, looking into the mirror. A girl was staring back at me. She wasn't perfect. She was too fat. Her skin was perhaps a little too dark and her hair was perhaps a little too curly. She was me.

Opening the cabinet to the side, I took out a bottle of pills. Taking two out, I cradled them in my palm, staring at them accusingly. They were drugs. Prescribed by my doctor, I have to say. But they affected me just like heroin would. I had taken a few and just felt out of control. I'll admit I felt happier with myself. But, it was kind of like a dream. A little fuzzy around the edges. I don't remember much about the time when I'd taken them. So I stopped. No one knew. The doctors thought they were helping. But the drugs were just making things worse.

I knew the consequences. My dad would simply break, like I had, if he ever found out I wasn't taking them. But, when the pills were in my hand, the consequences didn't seem important. So I dropped them in the sink and turned the faucet on, watching as the two white pieces of hell circled down the drain.

* * *

"Hey," Troy whispered as he sat next to me. It had been a few days since we had been paired up together and, so far, we'd worked together at least an hour every day.

I looked up at him and gave him a small smile. That was my only acknowledgement of him before I turned back to the textbook in front of me. The less I spoke, the less exposed I was to him. I was noting facts about anorexia down, acting as if I didn't know it all already. That was the thing, though, wasn't it? Although I accused the Perfects of acting happy and all, I knew that I was acting, too. I had been since I was thirteen. Acting was easier than facing the truth.

"What have you found?" he murmured, peering over at my notes.

"Shh!" Mrs Falstaff hissed at us.

Troy sighed. "Wanna go somewhere where we can talk?"

I shrugged and began packing everything into my bag. "Guess we have to. We have to discuss it all." We left the library and wandered through the hallway. I liked walking through the halls at times like this. They were less crowded, with just a few people who were at their lockers. It wasn't crowded like before school. It was better.

I followed Troy and watched him as he chattered mindlessly to me; he seemed to sense that I wasn't listening, or that I wasn't particularly interested in what he was saying. He seemed simple, to me. He accepted that I had boundaries and he still talked non-stop about topics that he knew I wouldn't care about. I couldn't be sure but I was guessing he did this to avoid any possible awkwardness. But, even without his chattering, he looked like a guy who was generally happy with his life. I smiled to myself, unnoticed by Troy, when I noticed that he had what many romantics would call a swing in his step. He wasn't dawdling, scuffing his shoes, hugging his books to his chest, or any of the things I did when I walked.

He opened a door to the side. I had obviously been mistaken in my assumption that it was a janitor's closet. He smiled reassuringly as he gestured inside. "Go on. I think you'll like it."

"Are we allowed to go in here?" I asked, peering cautiously at the only thing I could see: a flight of stairs. I couldn't see where it led and there were no clues, either. I turned back to Troy.

He leaned against the doorframe. "Haven't a clue. I've never been caught in here. I think the science club uses it sometimes." He quirked an eyebrow. "Come on, El. We need to do this project somewhere and Mrs Falstaff won't let us talk in the library. Come on."

I frowned. "What did you call me?"

He coughed self consciously. "El?" He said it as more of a question, than a statement.

I nodded slowly. No one had ever called me that before. Greg called me 'Brie', Maria used to call me 'Gabi' but everybody else just used 'Gabriella'.

"Is that okay?" he asked quietly.

Looking over at him, I saw that he looked almost...shy. Huh. Funny. A Perfect appearing shy. Except, I knew that he wasn't _appearing_ shy. He was _feeling_ shy. The more time I spent with Troy Bolton, the more I found out about him. Who knew that Troy Bolton, who led the East High Wildcats to glory each and every year, held the look about him like that of a naughty little school boy.

"It's fine," I whispered, unsure if I preferred this Troy to the happy and non-stop-talking one or not.

He lifted his head, his blue eyes showing nothing but honesty and uncertainty. "Really?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

He smiled and the gestured to the stairs. "Go on then."

I hesitated for only a moment before I headed towards the stairs. What's the worst that could happen? Troy Bolton was many things but a murderer wasn't one of them. I felt self conscious as Troy followed me up the stairs. I hated it when people looked at me, no matter the reason.

I emerged out onto what seemed to be the rooftop of the school. There was a small gazebo-like structure with a wooden bench and potted flowers around the edge. I dropped my bag to the floor and stepped towards the railing. The view was spectacular. The mountains and the fields...I wish I was a part of nature like this view. Then someone might feel this way about me.

Troy stood beside me. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"It's perfect," I muttered.

There was a short silence. "I guess it is. Do you like things like this? Like nature?"

I glanced at him and nodded. "I love nature. This is what I like drawing. Things like this."

"Oh so you draw landscapes?" Troy asked.

I pondered that for a moment, thinking about all of the things I'd drawn that were obviously _not_ landscapes. "Sometimes. I draw anything of nature. A flower or an animal or a view like this. But, I do draw other things, expressive pieces that the viewer would just have to interpret."

"Can I ask a question?" He asked quietly.

I nodded shortly. "I don't guarantee an answer."

He cracked a smile. "I gathered as much." He paused. "I don't want you to take offence of this but, I kind of imagined landscape and nature artists to be calm and happy, optimistic, wearing floral pattern shirts. I don't get why you do it."

I sighed, staring out at the scenery. "I guess the easiest answer to that is that there are people in the world who live to be perfect. Like models. It's their job to be perfect. But, when I look at a view like this or a flower, I see perfection and nature doesn't have to try. It hasn't gone through plastic surgery or dieting or criticism. It just...is."

"Quite the philosopher," Troy murmured.

"What?" I asked, frowning at Troy.

"What you said," he began slowly, "it's true. I've known it for a while and I guess I should've expected someone like you to know it, too."

I frowned, looking down at my shoes. I stepped away from him, suddenly realising that the few day that had gone by since we were paired together, I was letting him in. Maybe not 'in' enough to be able to guess anything important about my life, but I've talked to him more than I have to anyone, except Greg. I was letting him get closer to me. How could I have been so stupid? He may be nice and smart and sincere but he was, after all, a Perfect and once the project was handed in, he'd leave me alone. Like I wanted him to in the first place.

"Someone like me?" I asked slowly, lifting my head to see realisation cross his face.

His eyes widened and he stepped towards me, but I just moved further away. "El, I didn't mean anything like _that_. I don't care that you're different."

Different. Yes, that's what I was. But it didn't make it any better.

Still, he continued talking, nonetheless. "I like it. I mean, you don't care that I'm basketball captain. I'm just Troy. I didn't mean anything by it. I just meant how you're quiet and subdued and I should've figured out that you'd know about nature being perfect."

I shook my head. "It really doesn't matter, okay? Look, I'll do the project, you can go back to your Perfect buddies. It's better that way. Just leave me alone."

Before he could reply, I bent down and picked my bag up, pulling it onto my shoulder. But, as I headed down the stairs, back towards the main corridor, I heard the tell-tale footsteps of Troy following me. Figures. Troy's evident stubbornness was shining through as he chased me down the stairs. He caught me in the hallway, reaching forward to grip my elbow.

"Hey," he said softly. "What was that about? What just happened?"

I paused and softly tugged my arm out of his grip. "I don't know. You tell me."

Then, I ran.

Greg usually drove me to school so when I ran through the office, ignoring the protests from the reception ladies, I kept running, heading towards home. My legs were burning. But I had to get of there. I had to get away from Troy. Because I was letting him in. And I didn't want that.

But he was like all of the others. He classified me as 'imperfect'.

Makes sense.

I saw my street and slowed down, letting my breathing level out. I slumped against the door and, for the first time in five years, let tears fall. Why had Troy got to me? Because he knew I wanted to go to art school? Because he knew my parents were divorced?

Because he knew how much _real_, _natural_ perfection meant to me?

I dug through my bag for my key and unlocked the front door. As I stepped inside, I was thankful that Greg was still in a class at U of A and would be until 5PM. The silence of the house was overwhelming. Usually, I revelled in the silence and would simply enjoy the rare time I had when there were no criticisms or bullying. I was simply me. It was usually at this time when I would draw something I deemed as 'perfect'.

But not today.

The silence was scary, a simple reminder of how alone I was. I had no friends except Greg and Greg was my only family. My parents divorced because of me and Greg had to juggle his university education with a job down at Hooters because we needed more money than we had. He would have a better life if I wasn't here.

Wiping my eyes, I headed upstairs to my room. I twisted the lock, the quiet click seeming to finalise my decision.

Things were too hard, too complicated. It started out as a minor problem that nobody noticed. But, because of this, my entire life had spiralled out of control, shrouded in lies and acting.

I wasn't worth any of it. I wasn't pretty enough or fashionable enough or smart enough or talented enough or skinny enough...or perfect enough for this world.

It's not like anybody would miss me.

I stepped into my bathroom and shut the door. I looked in the mirror, seeing the ugly pallor and dull eyes which was my face. I stripped down and cringed. Too fat. I was always too something. Too fat, too short, too dark skinned. No one ever said that I was perfect. And no one ever would.

I turned away from my ugly reflection and pulled open a nearby cupboard. I moved my bottles of pills around, finally taking out a tube of eyeliner. I used to use it at the start to stop me looking ill to others. But no one noticed. I don't think even Greg did.

But it didn't matter anymore.

With the eyeliner, I turned to the mirror and wrote _I'M SORRY I'M NOT PERFECT_. That would be my last message to the world before they found me. The news would spread, my dad would resent me for, not only destroying his marriage but, being selfish enough to end everything for me, a few people at school might remember my name but I would, ultimately, leave this world with no memories in my name.

And Maria would predictably act like it was a blessing, like my decision had done her a favour.

I turned to the bathtub and turned the faucet on, filling the bath with warm water. It would thin my blood, making the whole process quicker. It would hurt. But that's okay. That won't matter. It might be nice to feel something other than loneliness.

I turned the faucet off but I just sat there, naked, on my bathroom floor. I spied the razor on the shelf by the tub that I used sometimes to shave my legs. Other times, that very razor gave me scars. I would watch as my blood would drip down my wrist, like tears that would more than likely fall from Greg's eyes if he knew about it.

I pulled my knees up to my chest as if I was saving my dignity. But I wasn't. I pressed my forehead to my knees, revelling in the coolness of the tiled bathroom floor. Then, I did something for the very first time in my life.

I prayed.

Now, neither of my parents have ever been religious. I never went to Sunday School. I was never forced to go to church, either. The only things I knew about Christianity were things I'd learnt at school. I owned a Bible. I read it from time to time for no other reason than because Jesus' teachings were good. I can't say I've ever believed in God or miracles. Why would I believe in that?

But, still. I prayed. To who, I'm not sure. It could be God, it could be Allah, the flying spaghetti monster from Scientology, or it could be a chicken in out of space, hiding behind the moon, for all I know. Of course, I could just be praying to no one.

"I'm not sure if you can hear me," I gasped. "But I'm sorry. I tried to be a part of your world but I'm not good enough. I once heard someone say that you, Lord, don't make mistakes. But, I was a mistake, wasn't I? Never quite good enough for anybody. I don't suppose I have the right to ask for something off of you but could you just make sure that Greg's okay? Please? He deserves that much." I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Amen."

I got into the bath and the warm water stung my chilled skin. I picked up the razor and dismantled it so I had a single blade in my hand. Life just wasn't worth it, was it? I tried to be perfect. I lost weight to be the perfect size. But what's the use? You're either perfect or you're not. And Troy, despite how nice he'd _acted_ towards me, he was a Perfect and I wasn't.

I took a deep breath and then dug the blade into my left arm.

* * *

Troy tried to chase after her but Jack seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Son, where are you going?"

Troy sighed. "I need to go. She left. I need to apologise."

Jack frowned. "Miss Montez? What happened?"

"I don't even know. I said something and she took it the wrong way. Dad, please let me go," Troy pleaded.

Jack shook his head. "Troy, I can't permit you to just skip school. If Miss Montez wants to skip school, that's her choice and she'll be punished."

Troy groaned, throwing his head back. "Seriously, Dad? You're going all teacher on me _now_?"

Jack didn't seem bothered. "Son, I can't do anything."

"Well, what if I skip without your _permission_?" Troy asked. "What happens, then?"

Jack shrugged. "Detention, possibly suspended and, of course, grounded."

Troy weighed up his options. Gabriella had ran away and he really wanted things to be alright again. Not to mention how he felt different around her. He wasn't Troy, the basketball captain. She made him feel like just...Troy. Was getting detention, possible suspension and being grounded worth it?

He looked at Jack and sighed. Yeah, she was worth it.

"Sorry, Dad," he called as he ran out to his truck. He turned the key but, predictably, the truck croaked a little bit and then died. So much for having reliable transport. Leaving his bag on the passenger seat, he leapt out of the car and sprinted towards her house. His memory was fuzzy but he was pretty sure he was heading in the right direction.

He felt the adrenaline moving his legs, his muscles working to the extreme, like when Jack forced them to do suicides at basketball practice. His stomach was in turmoil. What was so special about her? They were just project partners. Why was he willing to go against Jack's wishes and skip school for her?

Because something didn't quite make sense?

He'd never seen her eat before. Not once had he seen her in the canteen. And she was always sad. She might not have vocalised it but you didn't need to be a rocket scientist to work out that something was wrong. She never smiled. Not really. She might twitch her lips as a form of acknowledgement but she never smiled because she was _happy_, or because she was enjoying her lived in hoodies and baggy jeans and she _always_ tugged nervously at her sleeves.

The possibilities flooded Troy's head as he pieced everything together. He didn't know if it was true or not but he knew something was up. Gabriella was many things. She was intelligent, she was mysterious, she was different, and she was...Gabriella. But Gabriella was not someone who skipped school. Whether he was the reason she had ran or whether he had simply tipped her off the edge, he didn't know. But, that didn't really matter. He just needed to make sure she was okay, and didn't do anything too stupid.

She was anorexic. Or bulimic. Or maybe something worse than that. And she was all alone. She had no one other than her dad. Troy didn't know much about Gabriella's mother, other than how she had divorced Greg when Gabriella was thirteen, and he didn't like to judge. But he didn't get the impression that Maria had made an effort with Gabriella. So, whatever Gabriella was suffering, she only had one person to support her.

That made him run faster. He had to help her. He _had_ to.

He spotted her house and felt his heartbeat quicken. Greg's car wasn't in the driveway. He stopped on the porch and, instead of pausing to regain his breath, he knocked on the door. "El!" he called. "I know you're in there. Let me in."

Silence.

Throwing caution to the wind, he twisted the door knob, feeling hope swell within his stomach when the door swung open. Not hesitating for a moment, Troy rushed inside and headed upstairs, leaving the front door wide open. Gabriella had just ran away from school and he suspected that she was severely depressed. He didn't think she would sit around in the living room, drinking coffee and watching TV.

Troy didn't have to look far for Gabriella's room. It was the only one with a closed door. He knocked on that one, calling her name. "El," he yelled. "Please. Let me in." He wasn't sure if his was just referring to her bedroom or if he wanted her to let him in her life.

Trying the handle, this one was locked. He rested his forehead on the wood of the door and...cried. He felt helpless. It was true that he had no way of proving that Gabriella was doing anything serious. She could just be drawing. But Troy needed reassurance. He needed to _see_ her drawing to forget about the possibility of her making any mistakes.

Turning around, he began looking in cupboards and rooms. After a few things had been thrown in frustration at a wall, he concluded that Gabriella couldn't hear him. This conclusion made him search faster. When he found a rusty red toolbox in a closet in the spare bedroom, he produced a well-used hammer. He would never be able to describe the feelings which flooded him from head to toe.

He rushed back to Gabriella's bedroom door and took a swing at the handle. It bent at a horrible angle and he took a few more swings before it fell, in pieces, from the door. He pushed the door open and looked around. Usually, he scrutinised a girl's bedroom, trying to suss what kind of girl she was. But, nothing was registering. All he understood was that Gabriella wasn't there. He saw a door which he assumed to be the bathroom and hesitantly stepped towards it.

Silence.

He tentatively pushed open the unlocked door and froze at the sight which greeted him. He'd seen many sights in his time. High school parties provided him with that. Girls throwing up in wicker baskets, guys spiking the punch to cause the throwing up, and couples practically having sex on the dance floor.

But this was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Gabriella was lying lifelessly in the bathtub that was half full of water which was murky with droplets of blood. He saw the blood dripping from Gabriella's arm. As the droplets hit the water, they turned into smoky tendrils, scarily resembling little fires. There was a long, deep cut going from her left wrist to her elbow, a razor blade on the bathroom in a little pool of blood.

She was completely still.

He saw her message on the mirror and felt his heart break as he dropped to his knees. He grabbed her right wrist and felt a weak pulse beating through her skin. He stroked her forehead, staring at her lifeless form. Now that she was exposed to him, free from her baggy clothes and her silence, he could see how ill she really was. He saw her tiny waist and how her ribs showed through her skin. Both arms and hands were covered in scars. He could actually see Russell's signs on her hands; tiny little pink marks on her tanned skin. If you didn't know what the signs were a symptom of, you'd probably assume she was maybe a little clumsy. But Troy knew. She _was_ anorexic. He knew it now. There was no doubt at all.

"Oh El," he whispered. "Wake up. Please. Why'd you do this?"

He fumbled in his jeans pocket but finally took out his phone. Dialling 911, he watched her intently, praying that her eyelids would flutter. Of course, they didn't.

"Hello, which emergency service do you require?" a kind, professional voice asked.

"An ambulance. Please. She's going to die," he cried, staring at Gabriella's face, searching for any signs of life.

"Okay, sir. Where to?" she asked formerly.

"Um, 32 Elm Street. The front door's wide open. No car in the driveway," he mumbled unsurely.

"Okay, sir. What's the case? What's wrong?" she asked gently. Troy knew she was asking in order to alert the ambulance people. But, there was a subtle change in her tone and it seemed like she was genuinely concerned.

"My friend," he whispered. "She cut her wrist, she's nearly dead. She's anorexic. Please. They have to hurry."

"Don't worry...um, what's your name?" she asked kindly.

"Troy. I'm Troy," he muttered.

"Well, Troy. The ambulance is on its way, I promise. Where are you in the house? So I can tell the paramedic?"

"The room at the top of the stairs. The door's wide open. The bathroom," he seemed incapable of using conjunctions to join the sentences together.

"Alright, Troy, they're almost there, okay? Are you close to your friend?" the lady asked gently.

"No," Troy admitted quietly. "Not really. But I want to be. She's important to me. Please! She can't die."

"Troy, listen to me, okay? If we can save her, we will. I promise you. And when she's saved, we will help her anorexia and any other problems, okay?" she exclaimed.

A siren was heard outside and Troy thanked the gods when there were the tell-tale footsteps of ambulance people climbing the stairs. "Thank you. The ambulance is here," he whispered before he hung up. "In here," he called out.

Tears of relief coursed down Troy's cheeks when two ambulance workers stepped through the bathroom door. "Oh thank God."

A young man, maybe in his late twenties, knelt next to Troy and began searching through his medical bag for something. "Troy, right?" he asked.

Troy nodded. "Yeah. Is she going to be okay?"

He brought out a sterilised towel and began drying her left arm, the one with the cut. "Hopefully she'll be fine if we get cracking. Could you pull the plug, please?"

Troy pulled the plug and the murky water swirled down the drain. "She's anorexic, I think."

The ambulance man began wrapping a bandage around her arm. "It certainly looks that way. Is she on any medication or anything?"

Troy shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," he admitted. "We're just project partners."

The ambulance man nodded over to his colleague who began methodically searching through drawers and cupboards. "It's fine. But, I think you may be more than that soon. You may have just saved her life."

Troy sighed. "She can't die. Is that it? Wrap a bandage around it?"

"No. She'll need stitches. This is to just slow the bleeding until we can get to the hospital and clean it. You're coming, right?"

"Of course." Troy nodded.

The second ambulance man brought over a white pill bottle. "She's on Etrafon. But, I don't think she's taking them. There are loads of other bottles in there."

The first ambulance man sighed. "Well, we'll deal with that later. Help me get her onto the stretcher."

Troy saw that the second ambulance man had already set the stretcher up. He moved out of the way, allowing the ambulance men to lift her gently onto the stretcher. They lay a blanket on top of her before they strapped her in. "She's still breathing, right?"

The first ambulance man pressed two fingers to Gabriella's neck while the other one packed everything away. "She's breathing. Only slightly but if we move quickly, she'll be fine. Do you want to call either of her parents?"

Troy paused. "I can't. Her dad is at U of A. I don't know how to contact him."

The ambulance man smiled comfortingly. "It's okay. It'll be on our records, I promise."

* * *

Standing outside of Gabriella's hospital room, Troy watched, but wasn't really seeing, as the doctors strapped an oxygen mask to her face and hooked her up to two IV drips: one with clear liquid, the other with blood. They proceeded to attach wires to her in order to monitor her heart rate. His hope deflated as he watched her weak heart rate on the screen.

She'd felt so unhappy, so alone and so imperfect that she'd tried to end her life. When, to Troy, at least, she was amazing. She was intelligent and mysterious. She didn't follow the crowd. Although, in retrospect, Troy thought that maybe she'd been _trying_ to follow the crowd but didn't think she could. He'd done all he could. Now, it was up to the doctors.

He turned, hearing the double doors crash open and Greg run up to him. "Where is she? What happened? Where's my baby girl?"

Perhaps Troy should've said something reassuring. Perhaps he should've explained why Gabriella had run from school and why he'd followed. Perhaps he should've explained how he found her he in the bathroom. But all he did was turn silently back to the window. He was exhausted. All he wanted was for the doctors to come out and tell him that she would be fine. But, he could tell by the way they were still moving hurriedly around her body that they wouldn't for a while. He'd watched as they'd cleaned the wound and now he was watching them stitch it up.

"Troy, are you okay?" Greg asked gently. He placed a hand on Troy's shoulder.

Troy shrugged. He knew that if he had any tears left to cry, they would've fallen at Greg's kind question. Instead, Troy simply let the older man hold him. It was a simple hug. It was fatherly, consoling and not unlike Jack's hugs at all. It meant a lot to Troy. This man, who he barely knew and who had just heard that his daughter had tried to commit suicide, was just comforting him.

Greg pulled back and forced Troy into a nearby plastic chair. Greg sat next to him. "You found her?"

Troy nodded numbly. "Yeah. I said something that upset her and she ran away."

"What did you say?" Greg asked. He didn't sound mad, he was just trying to find out what happened to Gabriella.

"I implied that she was different. And she is." He turned to Greg. "But I fucking love that. These past few days have been great because I've spent them with her."

Greg nodded. "I could see the way you look at her."

Troy cracked a smile but it soon disappeared. "She's anorexic," he whispered.

"I didn't even notice. I'm a horrible father," he muttered.

Troy shook his head. "No one noticed. She tried to hide it from you and there was no one at school to notice."

Greg sighed. "Even so. I should've picked up on it. I mean, she was diagnosed with depression but anorexia didn't occur to me at all."

"If you don't mind me asking," Troy began cautiously. "What caused her to have depression?"

Greg gave him a rueful smile. "I shouldn't tell you. She has to tell you. Don't push her into it, though."

Troy nodded in understanding. "I get it. I don't want her to push me away. Because I want to be there for her, you know? All my life, I've just been the playmaker. I've been the golden boy. And I'm not when I'm with her. I just want to help her and be in her life." He paused. "You know, when I found her in the bathroom, I saw the scars on her wrists. It broke my heart."

Before Greg to respond, a Chinese doctor stepped out of the room with a clipboard. He looked up, seeing Troy and Greg. "Are you here for Miss Montez?"

They both nodded and stood up. "How is she?" Greg whispered.

"She's alive and stable. She's unconscious but that's due to a loss of blood. She's got fifteen stitches in her arm and a bandage there, just for extra protection because she'd cut herself so deep. She's got an oxygen mask that's helping to get her heart rate up. It's increasing at a really good speed and if that's any indication, she'll make a really good recovery. She's on two drips. One is giving her nutrients and vitamins that she's been deprived from being anorexic and one is getting blood back into her."

Greg didn't seem capable of speaking so Troy stepped in. "So she's going to be okay?"

The doctor sighed. "Yes. She'll probably wake up in a few hours. But, I do recommend counselling or therapy. I honestly don't think she was taking her medication."

Troy nodded. "Thank you, doctor. We'll discuss everything after she's better. Can we go and see her?"

"Of course."

* * *

"She looks kind of peaceful, doesn't she?"

"I guess. I kind of wish she was curled up with a book or with one of those blasted sketching pads of hers, thought."

The voices. The voices hurt my head. Everything hurt and ached, especially my left arm. I remember praying to God. Was that whose voice I was hearing? Was I dead? That would be nice. That was what I wanted. It was why I'd sat there in the warm water, watching in agony as little droplets of my life dripped down my arm. It had hurt, of course. The pain had been wonderful and I had welcomed it. Since I was thirteen, I had been pained everyday because I wasn't perfect. Because Maria didn't want me. I just wanted to feel physical pain; to feel _something_.

"Have you seen her drawings?"

The other voice laughed. It wasn't joyous or happy. More remorseful and regretful. "No. She doesn't let me."

That was Greg. My dear, dear father. He'd endured long years of balancing his studying with his job down at Hooters in the hope that his degree would help him get a real job which would bring in a higher income. Before my parents' divorce, he had worked as a decorator. The majority of the money had come from Maria's job. But now, he was working _so_ hard to give me a real life. He wanted to have a better income so that I could have nice things. And this is how I repay him. With a lot of worry and a pile of medical bills.

But, I knew, that despite the consequences of my actions, assuming that I was still alive, he would still love me, and care for me, and help me get better. Because that's what made Greg amazing. A lot of people said that they had the best dad in the world. But they didn't. Because I did. Greg had to deal with divorce and with my depression...and this. And I knew he'd still stand by me.

If I had one reason to live, it was him.

I groaned and lifted my right hand to my head. "Oh, shut up." My voice sounded muffled. Touching my face, I felt an oxygen mask was there.

"Hey, hey, leave that alone," Greg murmured sternly. He took my hand in his and kissed it. "Brie, can you look at me? Can you open your eyes? Troy, get the nurse."

I opened my eyes but closed them again. It hurt so much. It was like falling asleep in the sun and being woken up; the sun blinding you. Of course, it was the horribly white fluorescent hospital light. "It hurts," I whispered.

"I know," Greg mumbled, stroking my forehead. "I'm here, baby girl, I promise."

Hesitantly opening my eyes, I allowed myself to get accustomed to the light and endured the pain it caused. I turned to Greg. He was crying. All of my life, he'd been unbreakable. He'd been the strongest thing in the world. Even through divorce and times when finances weren't that great, he hadn't cried. But now he was crying seemingly endlessly. He wouldn't let go of my hands and he kissed my forehead over and over again.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, squeezing his hand as best I could.

He shook his head. "Shhhh. It doesn't matter. You're still here. Brie, I'm not sure what I would've if you'd died. Please don't think that you're not perfect. You are. Please believe me."

"You're supposed to say that. You're my dad," I murmured.

Before he could respond, the door opened and a nurse and Troy (_Troy?_) walked in. The nurse smiled. "Ah, Gabriella. It's nice to see you awake."

"My head hurts," I muttered.

She smiled comfortingly. "I'm sorry, honey. It will. Your blood loss will be the cause. I'd give you some painkillers but you're already dosed up. Perhaps a cold compress would help?"

"Whatever," I muttered.

She sighed. "I'll check everything and then fetch a cold compress for you."

I lay still, eyeing Troy wearily as he watched me from the corner. The nurse checked the monitors but I didn't care.

"Well, Gabriella, you can take this oxygen mask off," she said cheerily. She helped me sit forward and slipped the mask from my face. She hung it on a hook and then turned to me. "Does that feel better?"

It hurt my chest a little to breathe without the mask but it felt pretty good. It was like feeling all of the life I'd tried to drain out of me was being sucked back in. And I was doing it. I was _liking_ it. If only for Greg. "It's nice."

She smiled. "I'll be back in a moment with the cold compress."

We waited in silence for her to return and all I did was look at Greg. Still, he cried. "Brie," he whispered.

"Yeah?" I croaked. My throat was dry and scratchy.

He chuckled to himself. "I love you, mi hija."

I smiled weakly at him. "I love you, too."

The nurse returned with the cold compress and Troy sat on the other side of the bed, holding it to my forehead. She left, promising to return in an hour. For a while I revelled in the relief the cold gave me. Greg would make the odd comment about how much he loved me but mostly we were silent. Troy hadn't said a word since I'd woken up.

"Daddy?" I finally asked.

"Yeah, mi hija?" he replied. There were lines on his forehead and there were bags beneath his eyes. I knew that what had happened had aged him terribly.

"Could I talk to Troy alone for a minute?"

He glanced at Troy and then smiled at me. "Of course. I'll be right outside." He kissed my forehead and then left.

I stared at my left arm that was heavily bandaged for a while. "You found me?"

He chuckled to himself. "Yeah. So when I'm grounded eternally for skipping school, it'll be worth it."

I frowned and twisted my head to look up at him. "I don't get it."

He shrugged. "Nobody thinks they're perfect. You're not alone in that. There wouldn't be as many cases of anorexia as there are if everyone thought they were perfect, would there?"

"I guess not," I admitted reluctantly.

He slowly reached for my left hand, giving me time to push him away. But I let him hold my hand and brush my little Russell's signs with his thumb. "But, there are people who think you are perfect. You've just got to believe them."

I shook my head. "You're wrong. People don't think I'm perfect. Except my dad."

"And he's not just saying it. He means it." He brushed my hair for a moment. "I think you're perfect. Please don't tell me that I don't mean it because after the day we've all had, I think we could do without an argument."

"I don't believe you but thank you, anyway," I muttered. We were silent for a moment and I stared at our locked hands. Surprisingly, it almost seemed like one of the most natural things for him to be holding my hand. "You know when you found me? You saw everything, didn't you?"

"Do you mean your body in general or specific things? Scars and how truly small you are?" he asked quietly.

Tears gathered in my eyes but I didn't let them fall. I refused to look in his eyes. "Yeah. Those things."

"I saw them. But, I figured out your problems when I was running to your house. I thought maybe I was wrong but I kept running because I needed to know I was wrong. But I wasn't," he whispered. "Are you embarrassed? That I saw your body?"

I sighed. "When you suffer what I suffer, you're not embarrassed by people seeing your body in general. A little embarrassed, I guess. But, I'm more embarrassed by you seeing what I've doing these past years."

Troy took the cold compress from my forehead and began stroking my forehead. "El, you scared me when I found you. I thought you'd die and it'd be my fault."

"It wasn't your fault," I whispered. "What you said, on the roof, isn't the reason I ran away. I ran because I'm not used to people wanting my company. You said it yourself, you enjoy my company because I treat you differently. I didn't like the thought of being close to you."

"El," he whispered. I twisted my head to look at him. His eyes were glossy with tears. "I want to be close to you. Please don't walk away from me. I want to help you and, if you'd let me, I'd like to be your friend."

I looked at him. _Really_ looked at him. Gone was the perfection that was usually surrounded by cheerleaders and his teammates. His hair was extremely messy as if he'd spent the last hour pulling at it, and he probably had been. His eyes were swimming with tears. Troy Bolton was actually _crying_. He looked remarkably like a little boy who had just accidentally broken a precious ornament. And all he wanted to do was fix it. He actually wanted to help me.

I lifted my wounded arm with some effort and touched his cheek. "Why do care for me? You didn't notice me until the project."

He placed his hand over mine that was cupping his cheek. "And I was wrong to not notice you. I just know that I want you in my life, El."

I nodded slowly. "You're the first person, apart from my dad, to say that to me."

He kissed my fingers. "I mean it, El."

* * *

"I'm proud of you, El," Troy exclaimed as I pushed my empty plate away.

I regarded him. "I think I had a breakthrough."

He smiled and nudged my pudding cup towards me. "Go on, then. I promised your dad that you'd have dessert, too."

I picked up my spoon and stared at the pudding for a moment. "No one's ever encouraged me to eat before."

"Well, there's a first for everything. Just eat it," Troy encouraged.

"You should be doing your math homework. It's due tomorrow," I protested, pointing to the books spread out beside me on the bed.

He waved a dismissive hand. "Math can wait. You can't. Please eat the pudding."

I picked the pudding cup up and put a spoonful in my mouth. It was disgusting hospital pudding. "You know," I began, "there are sixty calories in a pudding cup."

He smiled sadly and kissed my forehead. "And you need those sixty calories. I know its hospital food but eat it for me."

I laughed to myself. "If I eat this, will you do your math homework?"

"No. We have a project due Monday," he mumbled.

I frowned. "Didn't you promise your dad to do your homework while you visited me?"

He shrugged. "Details. Besides, I'll be able to do this later on tonight. I'll be able to do it in twenty minutes. You know that numbers are my friends. What I can't do is finish a project when my partner isn't there to help me." He poked my waist.

I giggled and pushed his hand away. "What did I say about that?"

He laughed. "Hey, you laughed. That's the important thing. Please, let's just focus on the project."

I ate my pudding silently and watched him as he replaced his math books with psychology ones he'd borrowed from Greg. He was actually perfect. He was like the flowers I drew. His perfection was natural. He didn't try at all. He'd saved my life. And, with permission from his parents, he visited me every day, bringing homework and doing everything that a _friend_ should. He even promised Greg to make sure I ate. He'd told me that the whole school knew but that's okay. I had Troy.

Placing the empty pudding cup on the table, I quirked an eyebrow at him. "Happy?"

He grinned at me. "Ecstatic." He flipped to an empty page in his notebook and opened the textbook. He paused suddenly. "You don't have to do this, you know. Mr McKesson will understand."

I shook my head. "No. I want to."

"You know, you're stronger than you think. I remember going to England one time on vacation and we went to the white cliffs of Dover. We were walking along the top. Spectacular view. And there were these crosses to remember those who had taken their own lives. I just remember thinking how courageous you have to be to do that." He looked at me. "Don't you ever think otherwise."

"Let's just get on with the project."

* * *

I hesitated outside of the classroom. It was my first day back at school as the new and improved, happier, more confident Gabriella. I'd been seeing a counsellor and, with Troy's and Greg's help, I seemed to be making progress. I explained why I didn't take my medication and I was no longer prescribed them. I no longer wore my old clothes but Greg and Troy had helped me pick out some well-fitting clothes at the mall.

And that was why I was standing by myself in the hallway, dressed in a white camisole and denim capris pants. Even my hair was different. It was trimmed and held back from my face with some white barrettes. My arm was still bandaged but that didn't matter. It was healing. I would, inevitably, have a scar. But when I mentioned this to Troy, he said how it would be a constant reminder of how strong I'd been.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door and pushed it open. I stepped inside and looked around at the faces staring back at me. Before, if someone stared at me, I'd pull my hood up and cower away until they looked away. But I saw Troy's smiling face and I felt okay. I'd overcome this. I wasn't completely over my depression. I doubted whether I ever would be. But I was better. And I knew I was getting my appetite back, too. I didn't need as much encouragement from Troy or Greg to eat my meals.

"It's good to have you back, Miss Montez," Mr McKesson greeted.

"It's nice to be back," I replied timidly.

Troy suddenly stood up and began clapping. Slowly, others began clapping and cheering. It was an odd sensation. To feel appreciated, I mean. Troy had shown how much he cared for me but I hadn't expected this. I'd expected rumours and whispers, not for a whole class to applaud my return. I suppose that I would've classified this as their _acting_. But I couldn't now. They all meant it. They didn't know me but I realised that they weren't that cruel or selfish to ignore my attempted suicide.

Tears dripped down my cheeks and I felt my shoulders relax when Troy stepped forward and hugged me. I held him with my good arm. I welcomed his embrace. His arms were comforting and he held me as others cheered. I pulled back and managed a small smiled. "Thanks."

"I didn't do anything. You were really strong to come back," he murmured quietly. "Come on. Let's sit down." He took my bag and then led me to back where I sat. He looked down at the person who sat next to me. Not in a menacing way or anything but a second later, the skinny boy had gathered his belongings and Troy was sat there instead.

I rolled my eyes at him. "You didn't have to do that," I whispered.

"I wanted to," he replied.

"Miss Montez," Mr McKesson warned. "I'm happy for your recovery but please don't get a reputation for talking. You, too, Mr Bolton."

"Sorry, Mr McKesson," I apologised.

"Miss Montez, are you feeling well enough to give your report?" he asked.

Troy laughed. "Are you kidding? She talked for an hour, convincing me that she wanted to do it."

I leaned across and pinched Troy's arm, glaring at him. "Shut up," I hissed. Turning back to Mr McKesson, I nodded confidently. "Yes, Sir, I want to give this report."

"Would you and Mr Bolton like to go first?"

I nodded. "Sure."

Troy got the report from his bag and we made our way to the front. He held my hand and gave me an encouraging smile. "You can do it, El."

I looked at my feet while I took a deep breath and gathered my courage. I lifted my head, looking at all of my peers. "The topic Troy and I were given the topic of anorexia nervosa. From personal experience, I feel that it is massively underrated. I expected to come back to rumours that I was attention seeking. And I wasn't. Anorexia is mostly caused from some underlying problem. In my case, my anorexia stemmed from depression." I paused. "Anorexia is sometimes overlooked, almost being labelled as a fancy word for models who diet. But it's not." A few tears rolled down my cheeks and Troy let go of my hand to wrap an arm around my shoulders.

"I've got it from here," he whispered. He turned back to the class. "Approximately forty to sixty percent of high school girls have dieted. Assuming there are roughly fifteen hundred girls at East High, about six hundred have dieted." He looked away from the shocked faces, looking down at me.

Before he could speak, I held my hand up. "Troy, I'd like to say something. When you suffer from anorexia, you see the world differently. I still do to some degree. But, it's easier now. When you're anorexic, you view food as evil. Every night, my dad would give me a plate of food and it repulsed me. It could be the sweetest, best tasting food in the world, but it was poison to me. I ate it for my dad's sake but as soon as I left the table, I vomited it back up." I took a deep breath. "For me, there were two categories of people. There were perfect people like all of you. And there were the imperfect people. But I was the only person I saw that way. There was always that little bit too much fat on my body. And, let's face it, I'm the smallest girl in this room. But it didn't matter. You could've given me hard proof that I wasn't fat at all and it wouldn't have mattered. I would've kept starving myself."

I looked up at Troy and he smiled down at me.

"When you're anorexic, you don't believe anybody when they call you beautiful. You just don't. You can't give a reason why you're not, you just find your reflection revolting." I paused, thinking about how much my life had changed because of this project; because Troy was now in my life. "But, sometimes, an anorexic gets lucky and finds someone who goes that extra mile to prove that they are perfect and beautiful."

Troy squeezed my shoulders. "Before we finish, I'd like to say a word. I know that our oral report was mostly based on El's experiences but I'd like to say what will end up being a cliché. You know when you're joking with your friends, throwing insults at each other? Don't assume that everybody is taking it as a joke. Make sure your friends know you appreciate them. You don't know what their smile is hiding."

* * *

I surrendered to the peace which surrounded me. Sitting on the rooftop garden, I was surrounded by the sweet smell of honeysuckle and the sounds of birdsong. I had agreed to meet Troy for lunch but the cafeteria was just too crowded. So, I'd escaped up here and began drawing. It was the bunch of tulips in the corner that had caught my eye. Not only were they naturally perfect (_like you_, and inner voice whispered) they were a really happy flower, when you thought about it. They were simply with no deep connotations with love, like roses did, or death, like lilies did. They were just a flower. But they were perfect.

So far, the day had been pretty crazy. I hadn't been able to go anywhere without anybody congratulating my speedy recovery and people were just being generally nice. It was a relief to figure that all of my opinions and judgements had been because of Anorexic Gabriella's paranoia. Even the people who I used to name 'The Perfects' were being genuinely nice. Especially Sharpay Evans who was determined to figure what my relationship with Troy was like (I emphasised that there was _no_ relationship; we're just friends). Of course, Sharpay didn't believe me. But, she was still being nice.

"Oh, here you are," a voice exclaimed.

I glanced up and smiled, really smiled, at Troy who was loitering at the top of the stairs. I can't remember the last time I'd truly smiled, and meant it, because I just felt happy. But, I felt truly happy with Troy. "Hey," I greeted.

"I should've guessed you'd escape here," he murmured as he sat next to me and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.

"It was a little crowded in the cafeteria. I guess it'll take me a while to get accustomed to all of the attention," I mumbled, going back to my drawing.

He chuckled. "Take all the time you need. They'll understand." He kept watching me. I'd noticed this while he had been visiting me in the hospital. For some reason I didn't know, he found pleasure in just watching me. He wasn't staring. Just watching. What he was thinking about whilst he watched me, I didn't know. "You seem to be getting on with Sharpay."

I smiled across at him. "She's sweet. A little assuming, perhaps, but fun nonetheless."

"She assumed we're going out, right?" he asked knowingly.

"How'd you know?"

He laughed. "El, Shar and I have been friends for over ten years. Whenever a new girl comes into my life, she calls them 'future girlfriend'. I know her."

I giggled. "She sounds fun."

"A little bossy but once you get to know her, you'll be fine." His smile slipped slightly. "Have you had lunch?"

I rolled my eyes and lifted my brown paper bag from beside me. "I'm still eating. I just wanted to draw."

He nodded. "Well, make sure you eat it all."

I sighed and reached into the bag, bringing out my chicken salad sandwich. I took a bite and quirked an eyebrow at Troy. He smiled widely in response, clearly satisfied that I was sticking to my new no-carb-left-behind diet. I gestured to my sketchpad as I swallowed. "Do you want to see?"

He frowned. "El, you never let anybody see your art."

"I used to not do a lot of things," I countered. "I'm trying my best to be a better person. You can look if you'd like. This is my perfect pad. I burnt my other one."

Troy frowned. "Why the hell would you do that?"

I set my sandwich down and brushed my hands on my pants. "I don't know," I admitted. "When I was let home, I just sat on my bed, holding it. I couldn't stand the thought of people knowing what I used to draw and think about. I didn't want to remember. So they're gone forever."

Troy was silent for a moment and all we did was stare at each other. After a moment, I turned away. "So, this is your pad of things you think of as perfect?"

I nodded as I ate some more of my sandwich. "Yeah. I guess my definition of perfect isn't as harsh as it used to be but even so."

Troy hesitantly picked up the pad and looked at me solemnly. "Are you sure?"

"Troy, there are things I don't want you to know about these past years. That's why I burnt my other sketchpad. They were personal to me and I don't want them to affect me like they used to. I want to keep going the way I'm heading. I want you to see everything I find beautiful. Go on," I whispered, looking at the pad in his lap.

Troy turned to the pad and stared at the drawing of the tulips I'd been working on. "El," he whispered.

"You hate it, don't you?" I muttered.

He laughed. "Are you kidding? El, this is amazing. It reminds of that really famous painting. I think they're roses or sunflowers? Really famous. You know the one I mean, right?"

"_Sunflowers_ by Van Gogh, maybe?" I replied uncertainly.

"Yes," he exclaimed. "That's it. It reminds me of Van Gogh."

"You can't say that. Van Gogh was the greatest artist ever. I'm nowhere near that standard," I protested. "Even after four years of art school, I won't be able to match him."

He cocked his head to the side. "He's your favourite artist?"

I nodded. "His work is pretty and simple."

"Well, in years to come, this will be worth a million bucks because it'll be your early work." He nudged my arm.

I laughed. "It'd be nice if that happened." I regarded him for a minute. "Do you want to see my favourite picture?"

He smiled. "If you want me to see."

I picked up the pad and flipped through the pages of everything I'd ever regarded as perfect. I finally found the picture and stared at it for a minute. "I drew this in the hospital, you know," I whispered. "Between visiting hours, I had a lot of spare time. I just sat there, knowing that imperfections sometimes add to the overall perfection, don't they?"

"What do you mean?"

I sighed and handed the pad over to him, revealing the picture of him that I'd drawn. "Like how you talk about stuff I honestly don't care about. How you bite the end of your pencil, which is really unhygienic, by the way. How you're stubborn, which, considering how I'm still alive, is a good thing, I guess. How you walk around with your shoes untied sometimes. All of those, and more, annoy me. I lie in bed, wondering why you do it all."

He lifted his head, looking into my eyes. "El," he whispered.

"But I wouldn't change them," I admitted quietly. It should've been something I found difficult to say. I'd spent years not telling anybody at all how I felt. But, it all spilled out in front of Troy. He could shoot me down, reject me, and never look at me ever again. But, as I looked at the kindness and the sincerity which shone in his eyes like a halo, I knew that he wouldn't break me like others had.

"El," he repeated. "You drew me. In your book of things you think of as perfect."

I shrugged, tears dripping down my cheeks. "Because I think you are."

He reached across and wrapped an arm around my waist. My breath caught in my throat when I felt his hand gently rest on my ribs. "I can't draw you the way you drew me. But I can fucking make sure that you know how perfect you are every day that I'm around."

He wiped my tears away with his free hand. "How long will that be?"

"As long as you let me, El," he murmured. He leaned a little closer, slowly enough for me to push him away if I wanted to. Of course, I didn't. In fact, I welcomed the gentle way which his breath whispered against my skin. I revelled in the way his hand gently caressed my waist as if I was nothing more than a China doll. And, considering recent events, I don't suppose I was to him.

His lips touched mine. It was hesitant. I knew he was unsure where my boundaries lay. But I welcomed it all. I pulled back from the wonderful kiss and looked at him deeply. "You mean that?"

"I don't need to answer that," he whispered.

We sat there for a while. Troy kept one arm around me while he flicked through my sketchpad and I kept eating my lunch. Once I was finished, I took a sip from my water bottle. "It was my mom."

Troy didn't reply for a while and I was sure that he either didn't know what I was talking about or he hadn't heard me. "What are you talking about?"

I sighed. "I know you're curious about my depression and anorexia."

"El, you don't have to tell me," he exclaimed.

"I want to," I whispered. "My mom owns a modelling agency. She has done since before I was born. When I was thirteen, I asked if I could model a dress. Just one. I wanted to feel beautiful and..."

"Perfect?" he guessed.

I smiled ruefully. "Got it in one. And she refused. She said that I wasn't thin enough, I wasn't tall enough and I wasn't made to wear dresses like these. Of course, my dad divorced her for this. She left and I haven't seen her since." I looked away from Troy and concentrated on my hands in my lap. "I couldn't stop thinking about what my mom said. I just couldn't let it go. If my own mom didn't think I was beautiful, why should I?"

"And you became depressed?"

I nodded slowly. "I was diagnosed and given antidepressants but they were like real drugs. I felt out of control. So I stopped taking them. I cut my wrists as you can see." I looked down at my bandaged arm. "I wanted to feel pain all the time because I never felt anything else. And, slowly but surely, I just...stopped eating. I made myself vomit on purpose because I was too fat."

"So it was her fault? Your mom's?" Troy exclaimed.

"I try not to blame her. But, how can I not?" I whispered.

Troy held me in his arms. His arms were strong and warm. "It's over now." He pulled back and kissed me softly. "We'll take it one day at a time, okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Hey, are you still grounded?"

Troy chuckled. "No. Mom and Dad cut it to a few days. They said that saving someone's life sort of made up for skipping school."

I paused. "I never thanked you," I whispered. "For saving my life."

He shrugged. "You're better and you're going to keep getting better with each day. That's thanks enough."

Maybe I'd just found one other reason to live.


End file.
